


sparked up like a book of matches

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets, part ii. [24]
Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Biting, Carnival Worker Peter, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Blood, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon, Public Sex, Tumblr Prompt, carnivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 14:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Roman truly believes that whoever green-lit the idea of having a traveling carnival come to Hemlock Grove should be summarily shot in the face.(or, five weeks before the start of senior year, Roman and Letha meet Peter at a carnival, and within minutes of meeting, Roman fully intends upon punching him in the face.Somehow, that turns into a hand job.)





	sparked up like a book of matches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFlirtMeister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/gifts).



> this was written for the prompt, "Are you flirting with me?” with anyone u want!!" and I went with these two assholes. 
> 
> this is generally in line with the show, so content warnings for Roman being a total asshole and being a little too close to Letha? I don't know. let me know if there's something else I should be tagging!
> 
> title from [Summer Hair = Forever Young](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cd-ZOgeA3Y) by the Academy Is.

Roman truly believes that whoever green-lit the idea of having a traveling carnival come to Hemlock Grove should be summarily shot in the face.

Every aspect of the place is torturous. Even with sunglasses on, the multicolored flashing lights affixed to every damn ride are making his head throb, and it seems like he can barely go two steps without tripping over someone’s unsupervised, screaming brat of a child. The air reeks of puke and popcorn and melting sugar, and the metallic screeching of all the rides is twisting together with the screeching of what seems like every kid in town.

If it was purely up to Roman, he would think about doing his utmost to burn the whole fucking spectacle to the ground.

But wiping the place out would probably also wipe the bright smile off Letha’s face, and that’s generally something Roman tries to avoid if he can help it.

“You sure you don’t want some?” she asks, pulling a wisp of blue cotton candy off the stick in her hands and waving it at Roman’s face.

“I’m fine,” Roman answers. It’s been hours since he last ate, but all the options before them, marching away in two neat rows of booths and stalls with a crowded grass median in between, make his stomach turn.

(Who in the _fuck_ thought that deep-frying butter was a good idea?)

“Do you want anything else?” he asks. Glancing around, she hums and pops another skein of cotton candy into her mouth.

“That’s pretty cute,” she says, pointing to a booth on the left. Roman follows her finger, expecting to be met with some ungodly kind of candy concoction. Instead, he realizes she’s pointing at the most over-sized stuffed bear he’s ever seen, hanging from the top of the ring toss booth. It’s almost as tall as Letha and blush pink and, if the quality of any of the other prizes is anything to judge by, will probably start leaking stuffing as soon as they get it back to the Jaguar.

Knowing Letha, even if that turns out to be the case, she'll love it more.

“Fine,” he says, fishing a twenty out of his wallet and striding over to the booth. Miraculously, considering the crowds of people as far as the eye can see, there’s no one else in line. The carny manning the booth is surprisingly young, possibly the same age as Roman. His feet, clad in a scuffed pair of boots with the laces hanging undone, are propped up on the counter, crossed over each other at the ankles. His hands are clasped on his stomach, and Roman can barely make out green eyes peeking out from behind the guy’s long brown hair.

Roman hates him even before the guy glances at Letha and jumps to his feet.

“Let me guess,” the carny says, planting his hands on the counter and leaning over the edge. There’s a pack of cigarettes tucked into the breast pocket of his brown button-up, which is half-open to reveal a plain white t-shirt underneath, and a faded name tag that reads _Peter_ is crookedly attached to the other breast pocket. Glancing up towards the absurdly large bear, he continues, “You want that one.”

“I do,” Letha confirms, nudging Roman in the side. Peter (if that’s his real name - Roman doesn’t fucking know how carnies work) clucks his tongue, and Roman is struck with the powerful urge to rip it out.

“Lucky for you, we have a policy here. A girl as pretty as you gets her first two throws on the house.” It’s the worst line Roman has ever heard, but he suspects that it works more often than not. Letha’s no dope, and even she’s smiling about it, dimples popping into her cheeks.

“She’s not the one throwing.” Roman slaps his twenty down on the counter, a mere inch away from Peter’s spread fingers, and holds his hand out expectantly. Peter stares at him for a moment, smarmy smile frozen at half-mast, before his mouth ticks up and he shrugs easily, falls back into his performance.

“I see the lady has herself a champion,” he says, twisting around and grabbing a stack of rings. “You get three of those around the bottles, and the bear is yours.” Once the rings are in Roman’s hands, Peter drops back into his chair and grins like the cat that caught the canary.

Roman isn’t surprised by the shit-eating grin. All of these damn games are rigged. They’re designed to be money suckers, designed to make fat, screaming children beg their parents for just another dollar until their wallets are bled dry. 

It would take a long, long time for Roman’s wallet to bleed dry and, rigged or not, he has no intentions on spending any more than the twenty he just slapped down.

Sometimes, if he concentrates really hard and clears his mind of distractions, he can see things that others can’t. He can see the invisible threads connecting things together, can see how one component of an object will affect another, can see what makes people tick.

Most of the time, this makes blood gush from his nose. Sometimes, if he pushes it too hard, a rail spike of agony drives into his brain and knocks him unconscious for a few hours (even a day, on one memorable occasion).

But he thinks he can manage this without giving himself a nosebleed.

He throws. The first ring skitters across the top of the bottles, which are carefully arranged in an inverted pyramid, and goes plummeting to the floor. The next three, however, land true, loop themselves around the bottles like jaunty scarves.

Just to be thorough, Roman casually tosses the last ring at Peter, and it lands perfectly atop his head, like a crown of thorns.

“I believe that belongs to Letha,” Roman says, pointing up to the bear. Peter blinks dumbly a few times, staring at the bottles, before he gets to his feet and climbs up onto the chair to fetch the bear off the hook. When he raises his arms, both of his shirts yank up to his ribs, exposing a stomach covered with a layer of hair a shade darker than that on his head.

“Those were some good throws,” Peter says, passing the bear over to Letha. It’s only a foot shorter than her, and she looks ludicrous when she balances it on her hip like a grotesquely large baby. 

Roman shrugs, fires off a mock-salute, and starts walking down the median again.

“Anything else I need to buy if I want to win your happiness?” Roman asks, glancing sideways at Letha. She shifts the bear so that she can tap her chin with her forefinger, pretending to be deep in thought, before she shakes her head.

“Nope. Not so long as you ferry me home.” 

“Thank fuck,” Roman mutters to himself, walking in the direction of the parking lot as fast as he can, just in case she decides to change her mind.

&.

They’re just turning into Letha’s driveway when a frown creases her soft face.

“What?” Roman asks, shifting the Jaguar into park. “Don’t you fucking dare throw up in my car.”

“Asshole,” Letha huffs. The bear is sitting on her lap, and she pushes it over onto Roman’s as she starts rummaging through her pockets. “I can’t find my phone.”

“What the fuck?” Roman launches the bear into the backseat and starts rummaging through the console between them. The only things in there are a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and a tin that used to contain mints (and now contains a razor blade). “When did you last have it?”

“Just before we got the cotton candy.” Letha unbuckles her seat belt and leans up, but the phone isn’t under her. “It must have fallen out of my pocket.” 

Roman’s fairly sure the more likely option is that someone, probably one of the carnies, plucked it out of her pocket while they were both distracted.

And he has an inkling on where to start.

“I’ll go back and look for it.”

“I can come back with you,” Letha starts, but Roman just shakes his head, leans over her and opens the door. If he’s going to be bloodying his knuckles on someone’s face, he doesn’t want her to be there for it.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back soon.” After a moment of hesitation, she reaches into the back seat, grabs the bear and clambers out.

“Fine. Don’t do anything moronic.”

“I would _never_ ,” Roman answers solemnly, crossing his heart before he throws the car in reverse, peels out of the driveway and heads back the way they came.

Although it’s nearly nine o’clock, the place is still crowded with families gorging themselves and horny teenagers trying to cop a surreptitious feel on their dates. Roman shoves past all of them, wrinkles his nose in disgust when he steps on a discarded hot dog wrapper, and strides towards the ring toss booth.

Unfortunately, it’s being manned by a different carny now; a girl this time, with teased blonde hair and cleavage spilling out of her tight white tank top. Normally, Roman would give her more than a quick glance, might even consider asking what time she finished her shift, but there are more important things to think about at the moment.

“Where’s the guy who was here before?” he asks, smacking his palm against the counter to get her attention away from her phone. “Peter, I think his name was.”

“On break,” she answers in a bored tone. There’s a piece of gum bouncing around her mouth; Roman can smell the artificial strawberry flavor even without leaning in. “Should be around back. Why?”

Roman doesn’t deign to give her an answer. Instead, he slips into the narrow space between the ring toss and balloon pop booths and starts walking. There’s a metal fence behind the booths, leading off in both directions for the full length of the median, but a few yards away, there’s a gap where two segments of the fence have been pulled apart so that the carnies can move back and forth. Roman darts through the gap and immediately finds himself in an entirely different world. Instead of concession stands and game booths, there’s simply trailers as far as he can see, in varying shapes and sizes and states of disarray. The air reeks of weed and alcohol.

He immediately feels more at home.

He starts wandering through the rows. It doesn’t seem to be a very popular time for break; he only comes across a few people, most of whom simply glance at him and shrug.

He finds Peter in the very last row of trailers before the land simply trails off into field and darkness, sitting on the metal steps of a small trailer hooked up to a dented, rust-speckled van. There’s a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and a magazine resting across his lap, one that he’s not reading, based on how his head is tilted back towards the sky, towards the thin crescent of the moon. When Roman comes closer, Peter looks down and jumps to his feet.

Before Roman can say a word, Peter pulls Letha’s phone from the breast pocket of his shirt and tosses it over. Even though the move throws him off, Roman still manages to catch it and stash it in the pocket of his trousers.

“I was hoping you’d come back for that,” Peter says, smoke spilling from between his lips like a pissed off dragon. “I would have called someone, but your girlfriend’s got it password protected.”

“What?” Roman asks. “No, she’s not... she’s my _cousin_ , asshole.” Peter shrugs and leans back against the wall of the trailer, beside the steps. The place looks surprisingly homey; there are floral curtains hanging over the tiny windows, and what Roman can see through the open door looks organized, clean.

“Cousin, girlfriend, whatever,” Peter says, exhaling a perfect smoke ring. “She’s cute.”

Roman’s face burns with white-hot anger, and his fingers curl into tight fists.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he says slowly, staring into Peter’s eyes and refusing to blink. He waits for Peter’s face to go vacant, but it never happens. Instead, Peter just pushes a hank of hair away from his face and raises a thick, dark eyebrow.

“Why? You mad I’m not talking about you?” His eyes flick from Roman’s feet up to the crown of his head before he continues. “I mean, you’re not so bad either.”

The anger filling Roman’s head like a warm pool of blood melts away in favor of confusion.

“Are you fucking flirting with me?” he asks, fingers slowly dropping away from his palms.

Peter shrugs again and drops his cigarette to the ground, grinds it out with the heel of his (still untied) boots.

“That’s kind of what we do,” he answers, waving a hand at the nearby trailers. “Brings in the money. Sometimes we mean it more than others.” Peter fishes a battered pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans, but his eyes stay on Roman.

It’s unexpected, but he could have some fun with this. He’s always enjoyed pushing people, enjoyed finding out if what they say is what they actually mean or if they’re just hypocrites and liars like the rest of the world. And besides, not that he’s ever cared much about what gets said about him in town, passed up the grapevine with all the rest of the gossip, but he’s pretty sure that he could get out of this without his reputation gaining another dent.

He takes three steps to close the space between them, wraps his hand around Peter’s jaw, and backs him up against the trailer. The unlit cigarette jammed into the corner of Peter’s mouth falls, but Roman catches it with his free hand and tucks it into the pocket of his blazer.

Regardless of how this goes, there’s no point in wasting a good smoke.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” Peter asks. He doesn’t sound scared or even concerned; mainly, he just sounds _curious_ , which is an intriguing detail. This close, Roman can smell smoke, both cigarette and weed, clinging to him, along with leather and what might be blood. It’s an interesting combination, one that shouldn’t mesh together in the least.

Roman’s always been fond of things that don’t make any sense.

“Were you actually flirting with me or not?” When Peter huffs out a quiet laugh, Roman tightens his fingers. “Don’t laugh at me. Yes or no?”

“What are you, the town psychopath?” Roman doesn’t respond and, eventually, Peter continues. “Yeah, I was actually flirting with you, asshole. You surprised by that?”

“Prove that you meant it.” The light beard covering Peter’s jawline prickles against Roman’s fingertips when Peter swallows. His eyes seem too bright, more yellow than green, but it must just be a trick of the light.

Even if Peter backs out now, calls chicken, this is still more fun than Roman’s had in months, and he hasn’t even had to cut himself.

“Fine,” Peter replies before he reaches down and starts working on Roman’s belt buckle. Once he’s roughly yanked it free, he keeps moving, pops the button of his trousers free and harshly pulls down the zipper. He twists his head to the side and spits thickly into his palm before he unceremoniously shoves his hand into Roman’s pants and wraps his fingers around Roman’s half-hard dick. Once he starts working his hand, he ducks his chin and presses his teeth _hard_ into the webbing between Roman’s thumb and forefinger.

“Fuck,” Roman hisses, yanking his hand away and smacking it against the thin wall of the trailer to distract himself from the pain. He’s surprised that he isn’t bleeding. He should punch Peter in the mouth, knock his traitorous teeth straight down his fucking throat for daring to pull that move.

Instead, he says, “Don’t stop,” uses his uninjured hand to twist Peter’s face to the side as far as it will go, until his cheek is pressed against the wall of the trailer, and ducks down to sink his teeth into the meat at the base of Peter’s throat. The move earns him a sharp hiss, and Peter’s hand tightens around his dick.

It occurs to Roman, briefly, that they’re technically in public, that at any moment, someone could come around the corner or walk out of a trailer and see them. It occurs to him that he should maybe be concerned about that possibility.

He isn’t. These aren’t his people. He doesn’t give a fuck what they see.

Eventually, he decides to return the favor; Peter _did_ return Letha’s phone after all, without being asked, without Roman having to bloody his knuckles. Roman doesn’t owe him anything, but that still feels like _something_ to be appreciated, so he roughly works his own hand into Peter’s dark jeans and starts up a pace of his own, faster than he usually likes for himself.

Peter, on the other hand, if the way he lunges forward like a wolf and sinks his teeth into Roman’s bottom lip is any indication, seems to like it quite a lot.

By the time they finish, Roman only a few strokes after Peter, they’re both bleeding; Peter from his neck and Roman from his bottom lip. He’s managed to swallow most of the blood, but he can feel some dribbling down his chin, drying there. Panting for breath, he sticks out his tongue and laps up what he can reach and, after only a moment of hesitation, ducks his head and does the same to Peter’s neck.

The blood burns down his throat like holy water.

“What the fuck,” Peter says, planting a hand (his dirty hand, Roman is displeased to note) on Roman’s chest and shoving him backwards a few steps. “You’re the town psychopath _and_ some kind of vampire?”

“I’m a man of many faces,” Roman answers, carefully zipping himself up and wiping his own hand off on the already stained thigh of Peter’s jeans. Peter just stares at him for a few moments before he shakes his head, reaches forward and nimbly plucks his cigarette from the pocket of Roman’s blazer.

“Is everyone in your town this fucking weird?” he asks, pulling a disposable lighter from his pocket and bringing it alight. The end of the cigarette glows bright as a firework when he takes a drag, and his resulting exhale sends a cloud of smoke directly into Roman’s face.

“No,” Roman answers, inhaling the smoke deeply before he turns and starts striding away, back towards the parking lot, Letha’s phone still safely in his pocket. “They’re not.”

&.

Roman drops Letha’s phone off, returns home, and doesn’t think about the carnival or Peter for the next five weeks.

On the first day of senior year, while he’s leaning back the stone wall that crosses the school’s front lawn, enjoying a cigarette, he sees a new face in the crowd.

Or, rather, it’s a face that only looks new for as long as it takes his memory to catch up with his eyes. 

Based on the way Peter’s eyes widen as he freezes mid-step, they’re both having the same thought, which consists of exactly one word.

“Fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
